I’m writing this poem at 2:21 am on December 31st
Sunday night, or maybe you consider that a Monday morning
And a country song just came on the radio
And I couldn’t help but to think about how much I hate country music
I hate the stereotypical voice the singer always sings,
And the predictable pattern of strung guitar strings
So at 2:24 am, on December 31st, Sunday night/Monday morning…
I started to wonder if you liked country music
I started to wonder if you owned a pair of cowboy boots or believed boots were tacky
I wonder what your definition of “tacky” is
If “tacky” even exist in you vocabulary
I wondered where you get your vocabulary
Did your mom raise you to believe that words would be your greatest ally
Was she raised with more than one language
I wonder what your ancestor’s native language was
And if it was ripped out of their tongues from history books
What stories were told from those tongues that history could never tell
I wonder what kind of stories you’ve carved in lover’s mouths with just your tongue.
I wonder if you’ll ever paintings carved into your skin at tattoo parlors
If you’d get something tacky or a portrait of a loved one
I wondered if you’ve ever lost someone
I wonder if you’ve ever lost yourself
If you did, where did you find yourself?
Did you find yourself in your palms over bent knees
That kissed the ground that at one time kissed your feet.
I wonder when the next we’ll meet.
I wonder when I’ll meet your best friend. What stories she will tell me.
If she ever gets scared you’ll replace her with me
And if I’ll ever have to tell her she’s irreplaceable
I wonder what’s your favorite places you’ve been to
The places that made you smile to our human anatomy’s upmost potential
I wonder how much you know about your own human anatomy
I wonder if you know that an average heartbeats 100,00 times a day
Pumping almost 2,000 gallons of blood through it’s chambers
Over a 70 year life span, that adds up to about 2.5 billion heartbeats
And sitting here, just wondering about you– you made me skip a few
It’s now 3:07 am
And I’m wonderin’ if you ever wondered what it would be like to be loved by a poet
To have your body be put to words and your words be put up against my body
And have lips match figurative language to the figure of your body
And write love poems on your cheek
And I wonder, if you even consider me a poet
What are the events in life that you consider poetic?
If your life was a poem, what kind of poem would your
8th grade English teacher categorize it as?
I wonder if you asked her a lot of questions
I wonder if you were a curious child
If you’re ever curious about me
If you’ve ever wondered if I thought you were wonderful
If my mind ever wanders while I wonder about you
And if I could ever weaver it back
At 3:21 am, December 31st, Sunday night, Monday morning
I’m wondering if you’re wondering about me.
If I asked a lot of questions as a child
If I ever used poetry to make love
If I count my heartbeats in my sleep
Or wonder what kind of grades I got in my 11th grade human anatomy class
Or where my ancestors were lost in this world in history pages
Or if you ever wonder if I’ve ever lost myself, but more recently, if I’ve ever lost my mind
I wonder if you wonder if I consider myself a poet.
I wonder, if at 3:27 am, if you’re awake too,
Wondering if I like country music.